Therefore, My Intercessor Be
by caithream
Summary: 'Mary Winchester helps the boys in some way, shape or form, during the apocalypse.' Mary never was one to sit back and let things happen.


This was written for the spn_summergen fic challenge on LJ. My prompt was: _Mary Winchester helps the boys in some way, shape or form, during the apocalypse._

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* * *

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She is running.

Sometimes the ground changes under her feet. She'll jump over a log to land on warm asphalt, twirl on red clay that becomes a field of wheat. It's exhilarating, and the scenery is just like she remembers. Dark, dark soil feels so soft and wonderful between her toes, and the stifling heat of Chicago in summer gets swept away by the breeze as she rounds another city block, seeing Lake Michigan in the distance. It's freedom, and it feels so perfect, some pressing weight finally off her shoulders, that she laughs, scaring away the blackbirds in the marsh. It's her own piece of heaven, no encumbrance, no guilt-driven conscious, nothing resembling responsibility; it's just her and her small, bug-bitten ankles carrying her wherever she wants, wherever she remembers.

Eons have passed, or maybe just a few seconds when she rounds a copse of redwoods, the trunks still so massive and imposing, and suddenly skids to a halt in front of a large, perfectly circular puddle.

Mary shuffles a little closer, toe-tips only just touching the mud, and leans over.

Her face is older and lined, grim, _driven_. The trees behind her become more silent than a whisper, and as she leans closer, a panicked ripple breaks the smooth surface, and her eyes grow wide. Mary sees her reflection and remembers everything.

* * *

It boils under her skin, an intense, frantic, jangling of nerves. Mary is so hyperaware now that she wonders how she didn't notice the difference before. Everything is too brightly colored and infused with a contentment that she refuses to let swallow her under.

Something's not right. A lot of somethings are very not right. The memories form her childhood play out around her as she walks, the overwhelming need to find… to find_ something _urging her forward.

Where was she before this? At the shooting range with her father after school? At the movies with John? Giving her sons a bath? Nothing seems linearly discernable in her head; it's all just… there.

She walks until the rocky ground changes into soft, wispy grass, huge weeping willows and magnolia trees springing up around her as quick as the memory itself.

Mary remembers her parents taking her to Savannah. Having been stuck in a hotel room for the better part of the day while her parents interviewed witnesses, she snuck out, dying to feel the sunshine. She came across a garden, or a park, maybe, and it was so beautiful that she wandered around for an hour or two on her own.

This was that garden.

And she can't hear or see anyone at all around her, except for the man sitting on the bench under a dogwood tree.

"Mary, is it?" he says when she comes closer, curiosity outweighing caution. He gently pats the space next to him with a gnarled, callused hand. "Why don't you have a seat."

She sits, slowly. "I don't know you, do I?"

"No," he says. "But you can call me Joshua."

"Joshua." She takes a breath and lets it out. "How do I get out of here, if I can?" She doesn't dare ask where "here" is, too afraid to know the answer.

"Not possible, I'm afraid," he says. "But this is good, hm? Just like you remember it?"

"No. I mean—yes, it's good, _just_ like I remember it, but…" she pauses, frustrated, letting the words swirl around her head for a moment. "There's something… something not right, I know it. I keep feeling like there's something missing, something I need to search for, like I need to find—"

It feels the same as when she looked into the smooth-as-glass puddle, like the unlocking of truth that was hidden away. There was no flood of knowing. From one moment to the next, she just _knew._

"Oh God," she whispers, such despair rolling through her that she has to clutch the wooden planks of the bench. There's not even words for how destroyed she feels, images, sounds, and emotions from the life she left behind after the flames swallowed her up unreal in their hopelessness. She doesn't understand how she knows, or why it came to her now, of all times, but she's too busy processing everything to really care. "I. My boys. How—how the hell could this have happened?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Joshua says calmly, as if this was all expected. "It's been written to happen for quite some time now."

That makes Mary feel worse, if it were possible.

"Please. You have to help me, please. I can't—I have to do something, they're my _boys_—"

A rage builds up beneath her skin like an electric charge. Before… _before_, she had tried so hard, prayed so much for them to grow up happy and healthy and completely unaware of the Campbell family profession, but, as the entirety of her sons' lives (or so it seems) processes in her mind, she can see it had all been worthless. Everything had become more fucked up than she could've ever imagined.

"I can't," Joshua says, though not unkindly. "But it would do you good to just let it go. Be happy here."

"How the hell do you expect me to be stuck here and happy about it while my sons are left alone to deal with everything?" She can't help that her voice slips to low and threatening; she still doesn't know exactly who or what Joshua is, so mouthing off may be a bad idea. Still, she can't find it within herself to give a rat's ass.

"You won't like hearing it, but this is where I tell you everything happens for a reason." He stands, smoothes a palm over the leaves of a hydrangea bush. "The bigger picture is very big indeed."

"Please. _Please_." It's only word her lips can make.

"Find your contentment here, Mary. Let things go as they always have."

He's gone before she can raise her voice to retort.

Mary gives herself a few seconds to panic. And then she steels herself, forcibly turning desperation to a slow burn of single-mindedness. _Doesn't matter_, she tells herself. She can figure this out on her own. Find some way to get out of here. She has to.

* * *

Time doesn't become any less indistinguishable, but thankfully, the linear discernability of the memories does. The landscape shifts quietly from one hour, or day, or year to the next, and it calms her, yes, but no longer lulls her to that complete state of peace. She's looking for… well, she honestly doesn't know what she's looking for, some sort of rip in the seam or something indicating a way out. Fortunately her memory for sigils and runes also still remains, so she carries a large stick and a piece of chalk, drawing figures in the soil and on the asphalt, sighing when she doesn't feel anything but the breeze.

She thinks about that moment from _not-knowing_ to _knowing_ too. Tries not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it's peculiar, especially with the timing of meeting Joshua. Maybe it was just her desperation and frantic need to ido/i something that brought them on. Or… or maybe they were held back. Waiting until now to be let loose.

Stranger things have happened, unfortunately.

It's also incredibly boring, all of this. Joshua had been the first person she had spoken with, but she didn't realize he might also be the last. Everyone else she had come across had been strangely indistinct, as if not quite in focus, and paid her no mind, even when she tried to speak to them. It had been nice at first, not being bothered, but with whatever passed for time here slipping away and no answers whatsoever to be found, Mary felt herself getting lonelier and more frustrated, a really bad combination. She has to force herself to look around at whatever place had sprung up around her and lose herself for a moment in the memories and landscapes that she remembers loving so much.

She finds herself currently in a wooded area, nearly everything dead from the winter chill. The dead branches and leaves covering the ground make it a bit more difficult to find a patch of soil to inscribe her sigils, so she walks, trying to find a clearing.

Mary never finds one. Instead, she hears the dry snapping of branches and frantic footfalls echoing around the trees.

She doesn't even think, just sets off at a run in the direction that she thinks it's coming from.

And then she sees… oh God.

She doesn't have to see their faces to know that those are her sons who are running like the devil is on their heels. She squints to see a balding man in a suit stalking them, a predatory grin on his face. Fear and anticipation curdle in her gut as she keeps an almost parallel distance to them, though far away enough not be noticed right offhand.

Mary loses sight of them for only a moment, and when she next sees them they've altered their course slightly, following someone. Suddenly they come to a stop at an old weathered shed. Her breath catches in her throat as she sees Dean (_her boy, so big, how did he get so big_) scan the surrounding woods, right over where she's partially hidden by a tree.

Before she can call out, the door opens, and then closes with them behind it.

The balding man in the suit frowns as he steps to the door, flinging it open. His roar of frustration makes her hide herself a little better behind the tree. And then he's just gone.

She waits a few minutes before making her way to the shed, wanting so so badly to be able to see what that asshole hunting her sons had not.

But instead, all she finds is cobwebs and dirt.

* * *

Mary didn't think things could get much worse.

After all the effort she had given searching, drawing sigils, dredging up memories from hunting that would hopefully help in any way, she had absolutely nothing. Not to even mention the fact that if her boys had ended up _here_…. She shook her head to dispel the pessimism. If they were dead for good, she would know it. Somehow. But why would someone be chasing after them? Could anyone else be _here_ besides angels? That thought alone chills her.

There's a long moment during her feverish search, something that feels stretched thin, a breath held that leaves her tense and waiting.

The next thing she knows, she's on her knees, her breath stolen from her.

He's gone. Sam. Not dead, _gone._ Completely eradicated from existence as if he never was. She feels a hollow, aching loss, and nothing else.

She doesn't even know when she's able to move or breathe or think again. Her stomach roils, but finally she is able to get to her feet.

"_Joshua!_" Mary shouts.

She's had enough. _Enough._

"Joshua!" she cries again. "Don't ignore me, dammit, not now, I'm sure you've had a good old time watching me fumble around like an idiot!"

Silence.

She's five short seconds away from tearing at her hair, but when she takes a step forward, the garden from Savannah springs up around her.

"You have been far from fumbling around, I assure you," Joshua says behind her.

She swings around. "Do something," she demands, ignoring his infuriating attempt at humor. "I can't—Sam's gone, not dead, just… _gone_. How? Tell me what to do, _please_."

She can't stand to see the look of pity on his face. "I'm sorry, Mary," he says. "It's how it should be. I can say no more than that."

"Those boys are the best thing that ever happened to me. They don't—they haven't deserved _any_ of this. I can't just sit here and let some selfishly divine plan play them like pawns."

"God understands your pain, Mary." At the scathing look she gives him, he continues. "He does. All that he asks is that you have faith." And with that he turns to go.

Mary squeezes her eyes shut, hoping with all her might that she's not about to make a huge mistake.

"Yehoshua!" she calls.

He stops and slowly turns to her again, though his face reveals nothing. She almost can't breathe.

"Please," she says. "Help me."

He smiles.

"Your sons are just like you, you know," he says. "Quite persistent."

For a moment he just stares at her, and the thought flies through her brain that she's about to go out the same way as Sam, completely eliminated from existence. But then she feels that aching hollow of her son's loss inside her fill up gently, a deep wound healed and whole once more.

"This will change things." Mary can barely hear Joshua's words as she shakes with utter relief. "But your sons… they seem to have a knack for adapting to almost anything." She makes a noise in her throat.

"That's my boys," she says as steadily as she can.

"Come." Joshua puts his hand out. "I think it's time for you to meet someone."

* * *

One second they're in the garden, and the next, they're outside of an old, rundown bar.

"You have friends here," Joshua says. "You may not know them, but they'll know you."

"Oh," Mary breathes. Her mind is still halfway stuck on what just happened. She wants to say that she doesn't understand what made him have the change of heart, but she does. Old words, proper words, they hold a certain power and reverence, more so here, she's sure. She's awestruck enough that she doesn't dare question it or bring it up. "Thank you, Joshua, I can't—I can't thank you enough." He nods, the corners of his lips tugged slightly upwards.

"I know. And I hope for both our sakes that the peace you seek will be better found here." There's amusement in his voice, but even so, her cheeks pink slightly. Joshua tips his head to the bar. "Tell them I said hello."

And with that, he's gone.

* * *

Inside, there's a young man with a mullet and a beer can tower surrounding him, fingers flying on a small device in front of him.

"Hello?" she says.

"Holy—!" the guy flails, nearly knocking over the beer can tower.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," she winces.

"No problemo," he says, straightening. "I was just—" He pauses. Stares. Finally says, "Well I'll be Ronnie Van Zant." Flipping his hair over one shoulder, he bangs on the wall. "Yo, Pam, Ellen! Got someone here you might wanna see."

Ten minutes later, Mary's still not used to having these people—especially people she doesn't even _know_— stare at her so openly. She learns the guy with the mullet is Ash, a technological genius, that Ellen, who owns this bar in both life and death, had only recently departed from her sons' sides, as did her daughter, Jo. Pamela was a psychic whose last act on earth had also been helping Sam and Dean, though she waves Mary off when the apology slips from her mouth. Says she got the better end of the deal anyway. There are a few other names they mention, some who come and go with a little help from Ash.

"It's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," Ellen confides, drawing up a couple shots of whiskey and ice cold beers. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but those boys are the best kind of people I know. I hope… well, let's just say I hope things are going as well as they possibly can for them."

"Thank you," Mary replies sincerely. She swallows down two shots one right after the other, coughing a little through the dry burn. She runs a finger over the shot glass, taking a breath and letting it out slow.

"Have you… do you know my husband, John? Have you seen or heard from him?" she asks tentatively. She knows the answer the second Ash and Ellen glance at each other.

They haven't. Which isn't to say Ash hasn't been regularly searching, but then again, they were doing the same for Mary. Still, Ash's web of contacts has been steadily growing, and he's confident John will turn up eventually. Mary lets that worry go with an exhale; nothing she can do anyway, and she's still too keyed up from… everything.

She meets Ellen's daughter, Jo, and the five of them spend what feels like an endless night drinking and talking. Intermittently they tell her stories of Sam and Dean, and she feels both infinitely sadder and delighted to hear everything about them. They're friendly, _good_ people, and Mary's grateful that her boys had had these people in their lives to be there for them, if only for a short time.

They'll find John. And together they'll be here when later, _much_ later, she hopes, her boys join them again. Somehow she knows their work is far from over.


End file.
